Chapter Text
[“Please, Izuku. I’m begging you. Don’t become a hero.”]
The words echoed in his head as Izuku opened his eyes and stared up at the night sky, the stars scattered above him like distant pinpricks of light he couldn’t quite reach. For a moment, he forgot where he was.
Then he tried to move.
Pain tore through his shoulder, ripping a groan from his throat as his body betrayed him and dropped him right back onto the cold rooftop. His vision swam, edges blurring in and out, and he squeezed his eyes shut, breath stuttering. It wasn’t the mask. He knew that much. This pain was real, sinking into his bones. “Ugh… it hurts, it hurts, it hurts,” he whispered hoarsely, voice barely louder than the wind brushing past him. “I got beaten up for real this time.” His body felt wrong, twisted in ways it wasn’t supposed to be, and he had the fleeting thought that knees definitely weren’t meant to bend like that.
[“But, Mom…”]
Slowly, carefully, Izuku lifted a trembling hand to his face and peeled the mask away. The cool night air hit his skin, and he welcomed it, even as it stung his split lip. The stars looked clearer without the barrier, brighter somehow, as if they were mocking him for still looking up at them.
[“Please”] He remembered her saying, her voice shaking, her hands gripping his shirt like she could physically hold him back from the future. [“I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I saw you getting hurt… or worse.”]
He inhaled deeply, then let it out in slow breaths as he forced himself to sit up. His head dropped forward, chin nearly hitting his chest, curls falling into his eyes. Everything hurt. Every movement felt like a mistake.
[“Okay,”] he remembered telling her. He remembered the way her face lit up, the relief that flooded her smile like she’d been holding her breath for years. Maybe it was worth it, he thought bitterly. Maybe seeing her smile made it worth giving up his dream, folding it up neatly and putting it away where it wouldn’t scare her anymore. He had promised her he wouldn’t chase it. He had promised to be safe.
But dreams didn’t really die, did they? They just changed shape. They became something quieter. Something hidden. They became /secrets/.
Izuku fumbled for his phone and pulled it from his pocket, the dim glow of the screen joining the moonlight as the only sources of illumination. The light reflected off the bruises on his cheek, the dried blood at the corner of his mouth, the way his face looked far more tired than a teenager’s ever should.
He dialed her number and held the phone to his ear, heart thudding painfully in his chest. After a few rings, a flat, automated voice answered. "We’re sorry. The number you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.” The beep sounded louder than it should have.
Izuku swallowed.
“Hey, Mom… um,” he started, eyes drifting down to his torn, blood-stained clothes. He tugged weakly at his jacket with his free hand, as if he could hide the evidence even from a voicemail. “I’ll be running about thirty minutes late. I got… uh…” His voice faltered. He glanced around the rooftop, at the mess he’d made of himself, and forced the lie out anyway. “Caught up studying with friends. I’m just telling you ahead of time so you don’t… freak out. Yeah.” He ended the call quickly and let his arm fall to his side as he stared back up at the moon.
“Seriously? Studying with friends?” he muttered to himself, a tired huff of a laugh slipping out. He slid the phone back into his hoodie and reached for his mask, pushing himself to his feet. His body swayed dangerously, balance nearly giving out, but after a few unsteady steps, he managed to stand.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed another mask. Identical to his. It stared back at him with empty, unblinking eyes from the slumped, broken form of a puppet-like body sprawled across the rooftop, limbs bent at unnatural angles. “Well,” Izuku said weakly, humor dry and strained, “except you.”
He wedged his own mask between his thighs to hold it steady and slowly pressed his palms together. When he pulled them apart, faint, almost invisible strands stretched between them, glinting softly in the moonlight like delicate threads of a cheese pull, barely noticeable unless you knew exactly where to look.
The mask twitched.
The body followed. With a jerky, unnatural motion, the puppet flopped, twisted, and then pulled itself upright, joints creaking as Izuku flexed his fingers like a puppeteer. He gestured, and the figure obeyed, reaching down with its only functional arm to grab the bookbag lying beside it. It carried the bag toward him, stopping instantly the moment Izuku opened it, waiting for what he’d ask of it next.
Izuku reached into the bag and pulled out the extra sweater and leggings, his movements slow and careful while the puppet remained perfectly still, frozen mid-task, fingers still curled around the strap of the bookbag like a statue waiting for permission to breathe again.
The clothes were clean, folded neatly, but he knew it wouldn’t last. They would get dirty too, soaked with sweat and blood and grime just like everything else he owned lately. Still, this was enough. Enough to walk home without drawing stares. Enough to pass under streetlights without someone stopping him, especially his mother. /Especially her./
Once, he had come home with a bloodied cheek and had been forced to overexplain himself until the lie collapsed in on itself, and she had fussed and hovered and watched him like he was made of glass for months afterward. He couldn’t do that again. So a change of clothes, a mask tucked away, and a hat pulled low would have to work for now.
He tugged the sweater and leggings on over his original clothes, wincing as fabric brushed against bruises, then carefully folded the mask and slid it into the bag. Only then did he reach forward and take the bookbag from the puppet’s grasp, slipping the straps over his shoulders with a tired sigh.
He flexed his fingers again, and the puppet responded immediately, twitching before climbing up onto the bag. Its body split apart into tiny fragments, dissolving into smaller pieces no ordinary puppet ever should have been able to become, and Izuku looked away just long enough to scan the edge of the rooftop. “Okay,” he muttered under his breath, exhaustion creeping into his voice. “Where’s the fire stairs in this building… I really don’t want to climb down walls again.” He took one step forward, and pain exploded through his side, enough to make him grunt and clutch at himself instinctively.
[“Thank you. Oh, thank you so much,”] his mother’s voice echoed in his head, warm and relieved all at once. [“I just want you to be safe, you know that?”]
Does this look safe to you? The thought was sarcastic, but it hurt anyway. He found the fire stairs and took them slowly, one careful step at a time, keeping his head down and his breathing even, moving like just another tired kid heading home late.
Sorry, Mom, he thought as he descended into the shadows. But I always wanted to be a hero. One way or another.
As he reached the bottom, he caught sight of something pale peeking out from the bag, a hand not quite tucked away. He jolted the strap until it slipped fully inside. Hidden. Just like everything else.
*
*
“Oh! Mitsuki!”
Izuku jolted awake in his bed, breath hitching as the sound of his mother’s voice snapped him out of sleep. “Oh—no, I’m not busy,” she said cheerfully from the other room. “Just getting ready for work. You know how unpredictable my shifts tend to be.”
It was the next day. He took inventory slowly, blinking at the ceiling. Did his limbs still hurt…? He shifted—and immediately regretted it.
Yep. Still hurt.
He’d made it home about twenty minutes after the voicemail, lucky enough that his mother was still on shift. The rest of the night had been a blur of scrubbing blood out of hoodies in the sink—easier than risking the washing machine—cleaning himself up properly this time, bandaging what he could, and then collapsing face-first onto his bed.
Best sleep of his life, honestly.
He sat up now with a quiet groan. Not as much pain as yesterday, at least. Izuku slid his feet into his All Might slippers and paused. Yeah. No way he was leaving his room right now. He stood up and leaned against the door instead, listening, waiting. She thought he was still asleep. He’d wait until she left so he could eat breakfast without questions. Through the door, he caught pieces of her phone conversation, words slipping through the cracks.
“—your son! Right!” she laughed. “I’m so happy Katsuki got into U.A. We all knew he’d get in there easily.” Izuku stayed where he was, back pressed to the door, his eyes slowly hardening as his fingers curled into a fist.
Right. Kacchan had gotten into U.A., of course, he had. Isn’t he just lucky? The thought burned as his shoulders tensed, pride and envy and /aching/ twisting together in his chest. Of course, someone as amazing as Kacchan made it in. Of course, the future opened its doors for him without hesitation.
Nobody had probably even thought about telling him to reconsider. No one had suggested other options or gently warned him that the job was too dangerous, that it would tear him apart piece by piece. No one had ever pulled him aside and said, Are you sure this is what you want? The idea had never crossed anyone’s mind. Izuku could bet on that. Decisions about his life were always made so cleanly, so confidently, without him in the room.
“Oh, Izuku?” his mother’s voice drifted through the door. “I mean—you know…” She trailed off, and Izuku bit down hard on his tongue.
“I managed to convince him to drop his dream of U.A.’s hero course. His quirk just isn’t meant for heroes. I mean, it’s… scary, isn’t it? Controlling a puppet like that.” She laughed softly. “You remember how other kids used to get scared of toys moving, like something out of a horror show. And it didn’t help that he wouldn’t stop talking to them.” She laughed again, like it was a fond memory. Izuku didn’t find it funny at all.
He stared at the wall, jaw tight, nails digging into his palm. “If it hadn’t been for your son, he’d probably still be walking around talking to that puppet,” she added with a chuckle. “You know how he is. But—yeah. He got into U.A. General Studies!” Pride colored her voice. “I haven’t told anybody yet.”
Izuku swallowed thickly.
“Highest in his class, actually,” she continued, clearly smiling on the other end of the line. “That’s what the teachers said at orientation. We always knew my Izuku was meant for this instead. I’m sure when he gets older, he’ll understand that I did this for his own good. He still has his little shows and his figurines. That should keep him happy, at least a little. And he took it well. All things considered.” Izuku’s gaze dropped to his bandaged hand, wrapped carefully in white.
Well, he thought dryly. That’s one way to put it.
“...Friends?” she said after a pause, the jingle of keys sounding in the background. “Uh… I think he believes I believe him when he says he’s going out with friends to study. But I never hear him talk about them outside of that, or invite them over like he used to with Katsuki.” Yeah. Thought so, Izuku thought.
“But I know he’s doing his work,” she went on. “He just wants me to think he’s less lonely, you know? And I try not to be too hard on him, even when he stays out past curfew sometimes. After what I asked of him… I’m trying to take it easy.” Her voice softened. “I mean, we all knew how much my boy wanted to be a hero. It’s all he ever talked about. Played about.” She laughed again. “Oh! Speaking of that—any idea why your son suddenly stopped talking to Izuku after middle school?”
The line went quiet as the apartment door closed.
Izuku stayed where he was for a long moment, the silence pressing in on him until it felt too heavy to breathe through. Then he took a shaky breath and finally stepped out of his room. The bruises were visible now, dark against his skin, but there was no one there to notice. No one to ask questions.
On the table, his mother had left him breakfast, carefully prepared. Izuku grimaced at it, his chest tightening, and turned back toward his room instead. Not hungry. He grabbed his uniform and bookbag and got ready for his General Studies classes.
[“Please, Izuku. I’m begging you. Don’t become a hero.”]
As far away from being a hero as he could possibly be.
TBC